


Words Hath Forked No Lightning

by TwentySevenSorceress



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed Dean, Destiel happens at the end despite what the summary implies, M/M, spoilers through season 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9180469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwentySevenSorceress/pseuds/TwentySevenSorceress
Summary: Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage, against the dying of the light...Dean can't take the weight of his torturous memories anymore, the ones that plague him constantly and drive him to the edge of sanity. And the worst part is, Castiel isn't here to save him this time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in an alternate timeline in which Amara did not choose to bring Mary Winchester back to life, instead peacefully returning to Heaven with her brother and leaving Earth at peace. The events of this story occur roughly three months after the Season 11 finale. Enjoy.

There was a point when Dean stopped caring, somewhere along the way. He could never quite locate exactly _when,_ when he looked back on it. He simply recalled the days growing blurred and the sky growing darker. This had settled on him slowly, like a new season, sweeping away the old and tainting the world with new sharp edges so gradually, he hardly noticed. The last few months had been him stumbling down a gradient, his life giving in to the changing fade.

When he woke up, he would lie there without opening his eyes. The bunker would be silent as always, and eventually he would hear murmuring through the walls and footsteps echoing distantly from the halls. There had been a point where Sam had stopped trying to help him, too.

At some moment, he’d realized he always felt like he was on the verge of drowning, and his life had devolved into just trying not to go under. The past pressed down on him with all of its incriminating weight, the memories threatening to tear him apart. On certain empty mornings the screams of tortured souls, taken apart by his own hands, would follow him out of the nightmares and into his thoughts. The stark greys of Purgatory painted the world, sometimes he looked down only to see blood smeared on his hands and clothing, forcing him to remember someone he had killed. The chests he had ripped open, the throats he had torn out, letting the blood gush- with the Mark of Cain, he had enjoyed it. Blood had once coated his arms up to his elbows, like sick crimson gloves. It made him shudder to remember the hunger that had pushed him to kill, that unquenchable thirst that could never be sated no matter how many lives he stole or how much blood he spilled.

The past was an accumulation of traumatizing and surreal horrors, and he had survived by burying them with alcohol and sex, things that wiped his brain of the memories that troubled him so. Those things pumped him with chemicals that distanced him from reality and made him feel sated and warm. Let him pretend. It was the only thing that had kept him above the surface. Now, though, it was as if his past was finally overpowering him, clawing its way from the subconscious and twining itself tightly around his neck. It was torture on his body to keep up.

He wondered occasionally if he was really living anymore. What had happened to the emotions that used to rip his mind apart, the protectiveness for Sam and Cas, the thirst for revenge and the crippling grief for all he’d lost? He went to lengths to feel those things again, because even though that pain tore into him with viciousness, left him with the agony of many lifetimes over- they had kept him alive. Something he had once gone to the ends of the earth to do, stay alive. He used to cling to life with tireless fingers, defy every possible way Death could take him. He’d been so close to dying _so many times,_ and yet, his determination to stay alive had gotten him out of it, somehow. And Dean knew, the next time he was faced with life or death, he may not be strong enough to fight for his choice. He could only draw the conclusion that something inside him was broken, that he was just fighting against his overwhelming flaws. There was so much wrong with him, he had to get better, somehow.

So Dean tried to save himself the only way he knew how.

He’d drive out to bars and down a row of shots he never cared to count, but the fuzzy calm of inebriation was so much harder to chase with his new alcohol tolerance. He got pitiful looks from the barista every time, but always a full glass.

He would shoot winks and flash suggestive smirks at everything with a pulse and a pretty face, hoping that the wordless, morose nothingness of his mental state could be melted away if he only drowned himself in enough rushed endorphins and drunken sex. The days fell into indistinguishable blurs. The faces attached to the bodies he used in his vain attempts to bring himself pleasure never entered his memory, every eye color and face shape melding in his half developed memories. Yet, he couldn’t burn away the heavy memories that pressed against his eyelids. Every time he left the bar stumbling, or snuck out of someone’s apartment in the early hours of morning, the gaping hole was back. The high of the moments that fooled him into thinking everything was okay had faded.

So he just kept going, with a desperate, waning hope that after he had taken enough, he would be able to keep his head above the thrashing waves. He didn’t know any other way.

When he couldn’t find a blue-eyed brunette, nearly anyone would do.

…..

“Please, Cas.” Sam cast the angel a pleading look. “I don’t know what to _do._ I don’t know what’s happened to him, it’s like I’m just… watching him wither away in front of my eyes.”

Castiel ached with every word Sam said, he hated imagining Dean’s condition. Worse, what he was probably doing to attempt to forget about it. He _wanted_ to be able to fulfill what Sam was asking of him, he yearned for it more than anyone in Heaven thought an angel could yearn. It was just… that he couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his chest, that maybe Sam was wrong. Maybe Castiel wasn’t the answer, why would Dean listen to him in the first place? For Dean had clearly been dwelling on the past, and Castiel’s role in that story was not one Dean looked upon him kindly for.

“Sam, I would do anything to help him,” he stated, looking him in the eye. “He means so much to me, you know I would. But I cannot help thinking that I would make things worse.” He didn’t want Sam to misunderstand his intentions, the last thing he wanted was to be accused of not caring enough about Dean. The thought alone horrified him.

“You wouldn’t make things worse!” Sam insisted.  He lowered his head into his hands, tangling his fingers in his hair in frustration. “Honestly, I think I already did that. I used to knock on his door in the morning, try and get him out of bed. He would never move, he’d rarely speak. Just sort of… stare blankly at me. Sometimes it was like he was still dreaming, he’d mumble about how sorry he was over and over again.” Castiel noticed his hands fidgeting on the table, fingers twisting together in discomfort. “I’m just so worried, he’s reminding me of what I must’ve been like after the Cage memories hit.”

Castiel nodded, doing his best to hide his panic. Was Dean having nightmares again? He winced inwardly at the memory, the night he had caught Dean thrashing in his sleep, mumbling nonsense apologies before waking up screaming. Castiel had been human, sharing a bed with Dean after a long, bloody hunt. They hadn’t really talked about it first, just collapsed into bed, enervated and boneless. Sometime during the night, though, Castiel had woken up due to the rustling of blankets and nudging of limbs, only to be shocked into silence by Dean’s reaction to whatever he was seeing in his head. Castiel’s attempts to wake him had been futile, and once the hunter had finally awoken, he had clung to Castiel’s body wordlessly, panting heavily. Castiel had done his best to murmur comforting things in his ear, and they’d eventually drifted off. In the morning, though, Dean had pretended like nothing had happened, although his smiles seemed less easygoing and more forced.

“Hey, Cas?”

Castiel still berated himself for never following up on it, he thought he had finally grasped the concept of this “personal space” Dean had kept going on about. Somewhere along the way, he had become petrified of Dean hating him. When Dean had told him he could no longer stat in the bunker, he had felt… wrong. He didn’t know how else to regard it, just that being away from Dean physically hurt.

_“Cas.”_

“Oh,” he mumbled, zooming back to reality. “Yes, Sam?”

“You seemed… a little lost, there.” His face was concerned and a little confused.

Castiel blinked. “Yes, I believe I was. And still am. Though I doubt that is what you meant… where was I?”

Sam opened his mouth to answer, closing it as the angel went on. “Oh yes,” Castiel continued. “You would like me to…” he put up his fingers for the next words to make those air quotes humans did sometimes, he had learned they were for sarcastic emphasis, “’stage an intervention’?”

Sam breathed a sigh of visible relief. “ _Yes._ I think that you’re the only one who could do it. He misses you.”

“R-really?” he asked, genuinely wondering if Sam was trying to tell some sort of intricate joke. “Dean misses me?”

The younger Winchester smiled. “Yes, Cas. It’s easy to tell. He always does, when you’re away.”

If Castiel could blush, he probably would. Prematurely, too, he was likely drawing the wrong conclusion from the information Sam was giving him, probably due to some grasping hope. “Why would he do that?”

Sam laughed, his shoulders shook and he threw his arms over his belly, leaning bank in his wobbly wooden kitchen chair. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? You’ve got… a _profound bond._ ”

Hearing the phrase from so long ago jarred him a little, remembering back when Dean had trusted him unconditionally. _Profound bond._ It seemed like such an understatement, now. Dean still carried Castiel’s handprint on his shoulder, it made him shudder just thinking about his mark. Castiel had built his new body from the ground up, creating his new, unmarred skin, stripped of all the scars life had struck upon it. Castiel knew every facet of his soul, he had held it in his hands on the flight up… he had spent years admiring Dean for his bravery and his courage and the steadfast loyalty he held towards Castiel despite all that had happened. There was nothing to deny anymore, he’d become aware of the love he harbored for the hunter, an emotion he hadn’t believed he could feel until it had consumed him totally, burned him in purifying flame.

Profound bond, indeed.

“I know,” he acknowledged. “But I cannot help but feel… that I won’t be able to sway him in any way. And as much as it pains me to say it, as much as I want Dean’s condition to improve before something horrible happens, I’m not sure if I want to risk… messing up.”

“Cas.” Sam slammed his hand down on the table, getting his attention. “We just went over that. I’m not sure there _is_ a way to mess this up more than it already has been. I’m worried for him, man. And I know you are, too. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

And Cas knew every word was true, and he knew it was selfish to fear for his own rejection when he clearly should be worrying about Dean. He owed so much to the Winchester’s, and he’d always believed that Purgatory hadn’t been enough of a penance for what he had done. He had no right to complain of wounded feelings, he deserved nothing more, even if he got it.

He nodded. “Yes, Sam. I’ll talk to him… I’m afraid I cannot to more than that. My powers only stretch so far.”

Sam nodded in return, sliding down in his chair a little. “Thank you, really.”

Castiel, with his eyes glued to the floor, strode out of the kitchen and disappeared from Sam’s view behind the corner. When he has sure Sam could no longer see him, he slumped against the wall, letting his head fall back and thump hard against the stiff plaster. _Please, Dean,_ he thought. _Let me in._

…..

Dean rested his elbows on the bar counter, a short row of empty shot glasses in front of him. He felt the buzz of the alcohol, it comforted him and skewed the world just right. Soon, though, it wasn’t strong enough to hold back the gore, the world was still too sharp and the bloody memories in his head were still nagging at him.

He remembered when he would’ve run to the middle of the floor and kill everyone in sight mindlessly, his every thought being to kill, kill, kill. To coat the world in that beautiful blood. He remembered the way the First Blade had fit so perfectly in his hand, the way he had felt complete and whole again when he held it. There had been this perfect rush to swinging that blade, a carnal pleasure he felt sick remembering. He had been a monster. Perhaps he still was.

Shaking off the stupor, he raised his hand to wave the bartender back over.

“Hello, Dean.”

He gave a loud yelp of surprise that was drowned out by the music. He couldn’t hear his own yell. Castiel stood behind the bar stool he was sitting on, his expression solemn as always. He was wearing the same office casual clothes and horrid but somehow attractive trench coat he always was, staring Dean down as he always did. He tried not to think too much about how impossibly blue his eyes were, in his current mental state, he was used to scanning a room for eyes like that. Just… just like that.

“Cas, we talked about this. Give me. A warning,” he grumbled, covering half of his face with one splayed hand.

“I apologize,” Cas said, straightening up. “It slipped my mind.” _If you wanted to remember,_ Dean thought, _you’d remember._ “I was merely checking in.”

“Checking in? _Checking in?_ Where the hell were you the last few months?” he snapped, standing up abruptly. He stepped closer to Castiel, they were mere inches apart. The angel’s eyes were wide with shock, but he didn’t back away. “I’ve been fucking _drowning,_ and you, you just- fly back to heaven after we got rid of Amara, and you don’t even tell me?” Dean lapsed into silence, breathing hard.

 He had been consumed with thoughts about Castiel since he’d left; where he’d gone, if Dean had imagined what their interactions had become, if Castiel was aware of the deplorable state Dean had been stuck in. Now that he was face to face with the angel himself, he couldn’t stop the pent up, angry thoughts falling from his lips.

Castiel blinked. “I… I was not aware that you wanted me to stay with you after the fight. My abilities are of no real advantage to you and Sam unless you are hunting something of heavenly power, so I assumed-“

 _Castiel, you idiot,_ Dean groaned inwardly. “It’s not about your _powers,_ man. It’s about how it’s all catching up with me, I _needed_ you, but you weren’t there.” Would he be saying this if he had been stone cold sober? Probably not. But Cas was here, he was real, and Dean wasn’t wasting a moment to inform him that he wasn’t going anywhere. “ _You’re not going anywhere._ ”

Cas frowned. “Dean, are you alright? I do not think you understand exactly what you are saying. You are implying that having me there would have aided your recovery, simply due to my presence and not actions.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” he cried, stumbling forwards a little. Cas caught him before he collapsed onto the other man. pushing him gently back to his feet, but keeping his tight grip on Dean’s waist.

“P-personal space,” Dean choked, squirming slightly. He knew, though, that it was hopeless, he wasn’t going to try and leave the circle of Castiel’s arms as long as he had the living fantasy _here._

“You’re being incredibly contradictory,” Cas hummed. “Do you want me to stay, or don’t you? Tell me, Dean. Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”

The low of the inebriation kept Dean from thinking the words through, they just left his mouth of their own accord. He had nothing to lose, only Cas to gain. “Yes, yes, yes, _yes._ To everything.”

He wasn’t thinking when he felt the press of lips to his own, hard and unyielding at first, softening slowly. Dean leaned into it unthinkingly, pressing himself closer to the angel’s warmth.

The kiss broke before he wanted it to, Cas pulling away and resting a palm lightly on his cheek. His fingers brushed softly along Dean’s cheekbone, tracing the line.

Dean looped his arms around Cas’ neck, blindly trying to pull his face closer. But Cas resisted. “Dean, as delighted as I am that you apparently reciprocate my feelings… I must talk with you.”

“Talk later,” Dean mumbled. “Kiss now.”

Castiel chuckled softly. “I know. But I’m so worried about you.” His voice was so deep and gravelly, made more sonorous with his obvious concern, comforting like warm blankets. “I wish you were okay.”

“I’ll be more okay if you kiss me.” Dean’s anger had fizzled away after his outburst, melted into nothing by the warmhearted confirmation he’d finally gotten. Days of maddening brushing touches and unusually long periods of staring, nights of accidental cuddling and shared warmth- it had all been leading up to this. And it felt amazing, the feeling of the burden being lifted. He’d never have to settle for a stranger with eyes the wrong shade of blue and hair too neatly styled again, never have to seek out an unfortunate dummy to pretend; he had the real angel here, in his arms.

“If you tell me what’s wrong with you,” Cas ventured, pressing his forehead against Dean’s. “I promise I will. As long as you tell me. I can’t stand to see you in any more pain. Such a pure, bright soul… and so much pain in the air.”

Dean sucked in a breath, tucking his head into Castiel’s shoulder. “Can we go somewhere else?”

…..

The angel zapped them back to Dean’s bedroom in the bunker, when Dean curled up on his side on the soft mattress and began to talk. He was well aware of his vacant stare, his eyes trained on the wall focusing on nothing. He wasn’t seeing the bunker as he spoke, just people screaming and begging, the twisted memory of the music it had sounded like making him toss and writhe as he recalled it.

Later, he would not remember exactly what he had told Castiel. Simply that he had gone on about the visions and the memories, and the monster inside of him that didn’t deserve to be alive.

When he had finally run out of words, the simple words that had simply flowed one after another without thought, he shut his eyes. He figured Castiel would likely say something about penance, making his sins up somehow to God(Chuck). It was, after all, what Cas has resigned himself to after he had imbibed the Leviathans and released them on Earth.

Instead, he felt hands come to rest at the hollow above his hips, and Castiel’s long body sidling up behind his and pressing their bodies together. The angel’s soft murmuring blurred together after a while, soft and sweet words about how Dean had it all wrong, about how the monster was gone and Dean was whole again.

It was something Dean latched onto amidst the haze. That he was whole. He was now, he knew, with Castiel finally by his side. For at this moment, he didn’t feel deficient or wanting. Dean was truly content, finally at a lovely peaceful acceptance he never fathomed. His angel completed him somehow, he had always known that somewhere, deep down, even when he didn’t want to admit it to himself.

He didn’t need the First Blade, or Amara, the dominance of torture or the valor of heroism to be complete. He had everything he needed right here.

Even though he knew his problems would not magically melt away, he felt some nudging hope, a feeling so foreign to him he hadn’t recognized it at first. Dean smiled to himself. He was getting better, and that was all that mattered.

Dean drifted to sleep in Castiel’s arms, traces of the brief yet bright smile on his face and for once, dreams that cocooned him softly rather than nightmares that ripped him apart.

**Author's Note:**

> Also: 3AM quality writing, the fruit of random bursts of frenzied inspiration. Unbeta'd, all are my mistakes. And I'm not great at dialogue... I'm sorry. Happy New Year!


End file.
